by CJ Archer
"I love you," he whispered. "My brave, strong countess. I love you and if I must leave you in the spring, I will petition the queen and Burghley every day until they send me back. But hear me: you are my soul, my mate, my lover and our spirits will always be together, wherever we are."
When they awoke in the morning, they found a note slipped under the door. Rose's heart nearly burst from her chest when she read it.
You owe me five hundred pounds. I expect the first installment by Saturday.
HW
Thomas drew her into his arms and held her so hard against him she couldn't move. He buried his face in her hair and murmured, "Thank God."
Rose couldn't speak. Her tears wouldn't let her. Finally, when they eased, she managed to say, "It's too soon to know if I'm with child yet. We'd better keep trying." And she dragged him back to bed.
EPILOGUE
13 months later
Thomas watched his son's tiny finger wrap around his larger one. It was so perfect, just like a finger should be except in miniature. Everything about Robbie was perfect, from the crop of dark hair to the tips of his long toes. To think, he'd helped make him, although he'd done none of the hard work. That was all down to his equally perfect wife. He looked up as she walked in, a serene smile on her face that had been there ever since she'd given birth four weeks ago.
She perched on the arm of his chair and draped herself around Thomas's shoulders. She kissed the top of his head then bent down and kissed the top of Robbie's. Thomas's throat closed as it often did of late. It seemed he was turning into a sentimental fool where his wife and son were concerned.
"He's got a strong grip," she said, teasing Thomas's hair lazily.
He nodded because he couldn't trust his voice yet.
They watched their son for a while longer. His grip on Thomas's finger loosened and his lips made little sucking motions as he fell into a deep sleep.
Thomas was so engrossed in every small detail that Rose's question caught him by surprise. "So have you thought about it any further?" she asked.
He knew what she was talking about. It had been on his mind ever since he received the invitation. No, not invitation—demand.
"I'll make up some excuse," he said.
"No, you must go."
He shook his head.
She reached down and took the baby and placed him gently in his cradle. Then she sat on Thomas's knee and took his chin between her finger and thumb so that he had to look at her. She was so beautiful, the sight of her made his heart clench. The thought of her not being with him, even for a short time, made it crack.
"You have to go," she said.
"I'm not leaving you." Foolish woman, hadn't he told her enough times?
"I'll come with you."
"No! You can't leave Robbie so soon and you can't bring him. Court is no place for a baby."
"Don't fret so." She kissed the end of his nose. "I have it all worked out. We'll rent a place in London. I'll stay there with Robbie and you can be with us when you're not needed at Whitehall. When I'm needed at the palace too, the nurse will take care of Robbie. Happy now?"
It was so simple he couldn't believe he hadn't thought of it before. He'd been so determined not to go, not to leave them at all, but her solution was the best compromise. "Are you sure it won't be too soon for you both to travel?"
"It's not for another three weeks."
"But it'll be cold. Robbie shouldn't be exposed too soon."
"It'll be spring and we'll travel in a covered wagon with more furs surrounding us than all the ladies at court combined. It's less than a day's journey. We'll be well."
He knew he wouldn't get far in the argument. Her mouth was set firm, her eyes daring him to defy her. "Very well. I'll have Moon find us a suitable residence. Will you speak to your father if you see him at the palace?"
"I don't know yet." She traced his bottom lip with her fingertip. "Thank you," she said, huskily.
"What for?"
"For being my husband. For forgiving my father. For loving me."
He gently took her wrist and kissed the palm of her hand. It was warm and smooth like silk. "Loving you is the easiest thing to do in the world. I'm going to do it every moment that I draw breath."
He kissed her. Fiercely, passionately, possessively. She was his and he wasn't going to let her go.
THE END
A message from the author
I hope you enjoyed reading COURTING HIS COUNTESS as much as I enjoyed writing it. As an independent author, getting the word out about my book is vital to its success, so if you liked this book please consider telling your friends and writing a review at the store where you purchased it. If you would like to be contacted when I release a new book, send an email to [email protected] and I will subscribe you to my New Releases newsletter. You will only be contacted when I have a new book out.
Other Books by C.J. Archer:
The Wrong Girl (Freak House #1)
The Charmer (Assassins Guild Novel #1)
Her Secret Desire (Lord Hawkesbury's Players #1)
Scandal's Mistress (Lord Hawkesbury's Players #2)
To Tempt The Devil (Lord Hawkesbury's Players #3)
The Medium (Emily Chambers Spirit Medium #1)
Possession (Emily Chambers Spirit Medium #2)
Evermore (Emily Chambers Spirit Medium #3)
Honor Bound (The Witchblade Chronicles Book #1)
Kiss Of Ash (The Witchblade Chronicles #2)
Surrender
Redemption
The Mercenary's Price
How To Contact C.J. Archer:
Website: http://cjarcher.com
Email: [email protected]
Twitter: @cj_archer
Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/CJArcherAuthorPage
An Excerpt from
The Charmer
(c) C.J. Archer
CHAPTER 1
Hampshire, November 1598
Orlando Holt had never killed a woman before. He'd assassinated a bear tamer, a viscount, three French noblemen and two Spanish ones, a knight, a painter, a physician, an acrobat in Cathay, and five apothecaries. He had nothing against apothecaries, but he'd come across a disproportionate number during his three-year tenure in Lord Oxley's Assassins Guild. All the apothecaries, and every other target, had been men and thoroughly deserving of the Guild's justice.
Lady Lynden would be his first woman.
He watched her from his hiding place behind a yew bush, the only shrubbery in the walled garden with enough leaves to hide him. Aside from the dozen densely foliated trees lined up against the brick wall where Lady Lynden worked, most of the garden was bare. A few rust-red leaves clung stubbornly to the roses and other shrubs here or there, but they were rare. In contrast, the green leaves of the dozen trees seemed lush and vibrant, and quite out of place amid the autumnal landscape. Unfortunately, he was too far away to use them as cover. Thank God for the yew.
That was the problem with autumn. It was better than winter for shadowing a potential target—less chance of freezing his balls off—but the warmer months offered more places to hide. If he were really lucky, village women would shed their clothing in the summer and paddle in a nearby stream when they did the washing.
He didn't think Lady Lynden would go in search of the nearest body of water and take a dip in her underthings. She was a she-man, as his brother used to call women who wore masculine clothes or liked to do a man's work. Orlando couldn't see Lady Lynden's face from where he squatted, but he noticed the loose calf-length farmer's trousers, the woolen jerkin, and the wide-brimmed farmer's hat, all in dark colors for mourning. She'd rolled the sleeves of her shirt up to the elbows, revealing tanned forearms, and by the way she dragged around a large pail filled with what looked to be soil, he knew she was no delicate flower used to a life of embroidery.
Yet Lady Lynden was a noblewoman. According to Hughe, she was the widow of a baron who had returned home to live in the manor owne
d by her country gentleman father. She wasn't supposed to be this she-man doing heavy garden work. He knew it was Susanna Lynden because Hughe's client had said she'd be working in the walled garden at Stoneleigh without the aid of a gardener or other servants.
She straightened suddenly and looked around as if she could sense him watching. But he was too well hidden, despite crouching no more than a few feet from her. She sighed and removed her gardening gloves and hat.
Orlando almost overbalanced in surprise. He took it all back. Lady Lynden was no she-man. She was a beauty. Hair of the fairest gold, braided and pinned to her head, creamy skin, an oval face with delicate features, and large eyes. He couldn't see their color from where he hid, but he'd wager they were blue to go with her pale hair and skin. Where her forearms were brown, her face was as English as the queen's.
Yet a description of her individual parts didn't do her justice. She was extraordinary. Her face captivated him, rooting his feet to the muddy earth, and he couldn't stop staring. It had been a long time since he'd seen a woman as achingly beautiful as Lady Lynden, yet here she was in a Hampshire backwater dragging pails of earth around, dressed in men's clothes.
And he was supposed to kill her.
He passed a finger over his upper lip just as his target wiped the back of her hand across her forehead. She glanced around then pressed her hands to the small of her back and rubbed. So the hard work was not to her liking after all. What about the clothes? Did she dress like a man because she wanted to or because it was practical?
Orlando watched as she picked up a trowel and began digging through the dirt in the pail, turning it over. A few minutes later, while her back was turned, he crept quietly away through the ivy-clad arch and out of the walled garden.
He had never killed a woman before, and he wasn’t about to start. Not without being absolutely certain she was the murderer Hughe's client claimed her to be. Hughe himself had said the job probably wouldn't be the quick in-and-out that Orlando preferred and that a thorough investigation was needed. That meant doing something Orlando had hoped to avoid, staying.
He raced to the nearby woods and retrieved his pack from the inside of a hollow log where he'd left it. He didn't need to change clothes and he wasn't hungry, having dined at the village inn before coming to Stoneleigh, so he slung the pack over his shoulder. A few minutes later, he was once more leaving the woods and heading for Stoneleigh. This time he didn't creep. He whistled. Loudly.
As expected, Lady Lynden came to the arch of the walled garden to investigate. "Lo?" she called out. "Who is it?"
"Madam, my humble apologies." He removed his hat and bowed low, sweeping the brim across the gravel path. "I didn't mean to startle you."
"You didn't startle me. I simply came to see who whistles out of tune near my garden." Her voice was like honeyed wine, sweet and thick, but with a hard, flat edge.
"Out of tune? Dear lady, you wound me."
She rolled her eyes, and he was pleased to see he'd been right. They were as blue as a bright summer sky.
"Why are you smiling at me like that?" she snapped, stamping one hand on her hip. The other was tucked behind her back.
"I can't help it. You're a vision of beauty, a balm for my travel-weary eyes."
She didn't blush or smile coyly or do any of the things ladies did when paid a compliment. She merely scowled, scrunching her pretty little nose up as if she found his words, or his presence, distasteful. "You do not put balm on eyes, young man, unless you wish to go blind."
"Young man? I suspect I am older than you." Lady Lynden was four and twenty and already a widow twice over. Orlando was four years her senior, yet he knew when he smiled his dimples gave him the appearance of youth. Those bloody dents in his cheeks were the object of much teasing ever since he'd reached manhood. The only consolation was that women of all ages seemed to take joy in them.
Lady Lynden revealed the hand previously hidden behind her back. It clutched a rather vicious-looking short-handled gardening fork. "I asked who you are," she said. "Answer me."
He held up his hands. His pack slipped down his arm and hung in the crook of his elbow. He wasn't in any danger from the shrew. She might be stronger than the average woman thanks to her gardening, but he was larger and had been trained by Hughe. Women were no match for him.
"Orlando Holt at your service." He bowed again. When he straightened, she was still scowling. It didn't make her any less beautiful. "I was hoping you could give me work, madam."
She lowered her weapon and her stance relaxed. "No, I'm sorry, Mr. Holt. There's no work available here. Try up at Sutton Hall over the fields." There was no flutter of her lashes or wistfulness in her voice when she spoke of her previous home. She had given it up and moved back to her father's neighboring house of Stoneleigh when her second husband died and Sutton Hall had passed to his heir, a cousin. That had been a year ago and she was still at Stoneleigh and still unwed. Orlando wondered when her father would find her husband number three.
"I was at Sutton Hall earlier," he said. "There's no work for me there either." He held his breath. Waited. But his lie seemed to slip by unnoticed. She merely shrugged and turned to go. "Wait!" He caught her arm but dropped it when she tried to jerk herself free with such force that he probably bruised her. He cursed under his breath. He hadn't let go when he should have. Instinct had made him hang on. Instinct and training.
Lady Lynden's eyes narrowed, and if it wasn't for the slight tremble of her hands, he would have thought her unafraid. "I told you. There's no work here."
He nodded at her garden fork. "Then why is the lady of the house doing men's work and dressed in men's clothes?"
"Who says I'm the lady of the house?"
He liked the way she tilted her pointy little chin and the way anger made her eyes grow darker, like the Mediterranean Sea in the late afternoon. He smiled again because he couldn't help himself. She was a shrew, and he enjoyed a challenge.
Pity she was a potential murderess and not a candidate for keeping him warm at night. Although there were no Guild rules stipulating the former precluded the latter, Orlando liked to think even he had enough moral conviction to stay out of her bed.
"You speak like a lady," Orlando said, hefting his pack up onto his shoulder, "walk like a lady and have the bearing of a lady. In my book, if a rose looks and smells like a rose, it probably is a rose."
One side of her mouth lifted in a sardonic smile. "In that case..." She pointed the fork at his face and scanned it down his length to his muddy boots. "You look like a vagrant..." She sniffed the air and pulled a face. "...and smell like a vagrant."
He sniffed his armpit. The stink wasn't that bad considering he'd been traveling for three days. "I am not a vagrant. I am, however, in need of good, honest work. Garden work," he added. "I'm a gardener."
She raised both brows. "Really?"
He nodded. "I was most recently employed at Collier Dean, a grand house in Sussex. You've probably heard of it."
"I haven't. Do you have a letter of recommendation?"
"No, alas. I didn't think to get one before I left."
"That was foolish."
"What can I say? I'm a fool." He grinned and received a frown in return.
"Why did you leave?"
"I'm traveling to Salisbury to visit my sister."
"You're from Salisbury? That explains the accent."
His accent was a London one, but she seemed to know no better and he saw no reason to enlighten her. "I thought it time I visited her, but I ran out of money. I used my last coins dining at The Plough in the village." Lie upon lie upon lie, all smoothly spoken. He was an expert at them, as were all the members of Hughe's band, past and present. It was vital for survival to be able to act in any role at any moment with no preparation.
"What type of garden work did you do at Collier Dean?"
"Digging, weeding, pruning." What else did gardeners do? There wasn't much call for it working in the Assassins Guild or at his fam
ily's London house. They had a small garden to service their kitchen, but it consisted of a few herbs and such. Certainly nothing like the exotic trees he'd seen backed up against her garden wall. He shrugged. "Whatever was required of me."
"You weren't head gardener then?"
"Head, body, hands and feet." She didn't even crack a smile, so he forged on. "I was under the direction of the lady of the house, a keen gardener like you, madam."
"Did she grow oranges?"
"What?"
"Oranges. Did she grow them?"
"Uh, no." Only a madman would try to grow oranges in England. They were a fruit more suited to warmer climes like Spain. Surely they weren't the trees he saw in her garden. Why would she want to grow them when she could have perfectly good English fruit trees like cherry or apple?
"Then you are of no use to me," she said. "Not that I need a gardener."
He thought it best to keep his mouth shut. Lady Lynden didn't look like she would appreciate him pointing out that her hands were covered in hard calluses and she had dirt smudged on her forehead, or that the pails of soil looked much too heavy for her to drag around. This last he could not admit to having witnessed anyway.
"I'm very busy. Good day, Mr. Holt." She marched off, giving him a fine view of her shapely calves. When she reached the far wall and the dark green leafy trees, she turned around. A flicker of either surprise or irritation crossed her face before she waved him off, as imperial as any queen. "Try Cowdrey Farm," she called back. "It's quite a walk to the west, but Farmer Cowdrey will have work for a strong lad like yourself."
"I'm eight and twenty, not a lad. And I'm a gardener, not a farmer, but thanks anyway."
She turned her back to him once more but not before he heard her muttering, "Beggars can't be choosers."
"I'm not a beggar either. Or a vagrant." I'm an assassin. And a bloody good one.
